


Afternoon conversations

by RussianWitch



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, I've been reading one too many romance novels, It shows, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:39:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A question leads to an interesting afternoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afternoon conversations

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd

"Do you fuck your guardian?"

Dany, Sansa has learned, uses the Dothraki penchant for bluntness as a weapon; deliberately and with care that only comes from having been raised to someday be a Westeros noble.  
She knows better, but the Khaleesi and Mother of Dragons finds amusement in shocking those who come to court her favor.  
Sansa usually enjoys the bluntness, since it's not directed at her.

As she poses the question, Dany watches Sandor who is standing watch outside of the tent sweating under the merciless sun and scowling at everyone in sight. Sansa wonders what has him in a mood this time, probably the difficulty procuring Dornish Red again. Dany has told Sansa that half the camp lives in fear of her Sworn Shield, and every time Sansa remembers the conversation it has given her a warm tingle under her skin. She likes seeing him standing between her and the world ready to protect her from harm.

Still the question shocks Sansa; beyond the crude words the very idea of taking someone of such low birth into her bed, a servant in a way, a proper lady would not even consider...It takes Sansa a few moments to shake off the shackles of her Septa's teachings, they still haunt her occasionally. When the ghost of her childhood fades Sansa forces herself to actually think about the question.

"It would not be considered proper and..."

Sansa stalls before the lie about not thinking of Sandor that way manages to escape her mouth.  
She has been aware of Sandor's maleness for years, it would be hard to miss while binding his wounds, traveling up and down Westeros at his side and weaning him off his drink on occasion. Sansa suspects that she knows Sandor better than any human being alive by now; inside and out there aren’t many more surprises left for her there.

In some ways Sandor has always been a far better man than any of her suitors or husbands, in a lot of ways he's worse; the years in the service of the Lannisters having left their traces.  
Sansa is more than aware that he's a man, but the awareness that he's a man she can have has always been lacking. Perhaps it's because she still often feels like a child under his scrutiny, and Sandor has never exactly acted like he sees her as a woman instead of a silly girl.

"Who would know? No one here would tell! You are a widow, no one expects you not to seek...amusement, and such a large man feels very good between your thighs." 

Dany flashes Sansa a teasing sort of smile and Sansa can guess that she is thinking about her first husband; the savage who had given her, her dragons.

"I haven't had much luck with husbands or men in general." 

It's Sansa’s own fault for clinging to illusions; for expecting flesh and blood men to conform to romantic ideals this lack of luck. She doesn’t bear many scars to remind her of her foolishness at one time, but some scars will always be there hidden where no one will notice. Scars, and a penchant for always carrying a dagger strapped to her thigh ready to be used against anyone who comes too close.  
The elegant dagger had been a gift from Sandor, given to her along with a lecture regarding the nature of all men (bastards and killers) and the proper response required from naive chits in the unlikely event that he wasn't around to chase said men away for her (stab them in the balls and run). Somehow it had never come up that Sandor is one of the men she should be protecting herself from.

"He would not refuse i think, he cannot after all..." 

Dany reaches for a grape and pops it in her mouth, her eyes still on Sandor's back.  
The Khaleesi looks predatory and it makes Sansa feel territorial all of a sudden. She isn’t a stranger to the sensation; she's gotten annoyed with Sandor and the women who hang around him before.  
Essos is different from their home continent; the tastes of its women run to caring less about nobility or titles and more to caring about the amount of money that the man has in his purse, a strong sword arm and a fit body, or so it seems to Sansa. They don't care about Sandor's scars; some are even attracted by them.  
Dany has explained that it is a sign on strength for Sandor to have survived to bear them and the women here admire that.  
Quite a change from the usual response in Westeros, and Sansa's own reaction to him so long ago. 

"I...I have been an obligation to someone myself, I wouldn't do that to a...friend."

It still takes some effort for her to admit that she considers Sandor her friend in public, it's hard to let go of many years of instruction after all and if she manages to get past all of that there is also the chance of Sandor rejecting her. The last is that scares her more than anything; more than being compromised, more than never seeing Winterfell again. Since she has met him, the years without him had been far less kind to her than the years with him, she doesn’t want to be alone again.

"You could ride him like a stallion you know..."

Dany it seems is enamored with the subject to Sansa's discomfort, perhaps it is because she misses her own husband or because she's is Westerosi no longer, she doesn't care about being proper. Sansa is after all a friend and is so far trusted with Dany’s confidence.

"I doubt he would like that…" 

In her mind's eye she sees herself with Sandor between her thighs; she'd have to strain to wrap her legs around his waist. He would be heavy; pinning her to the bed, maybe a little rough. She's had enough roughness in her life really but, Sansa suspects; from him she might not mind it. Her thoughts make her ache and sweat harder than she’s already doing in the afternoon heat. Sansa has to force herself not to look at Sandor, or at Dany for that matter who seems absorbed in picking the choice bits off the fruit platter but probably isn't. 

"I am sorry Dany, it seems the heat is getting to me. Would you mind if I retire to my tent?" 

Violet eyes seem to look right into her soul reading every filthy thought and strangled dream Sansa has ever had regarding her Sworn Shield. Dany smiles and waves her hand towards the tent exit.

"Of course, your Northern blood I suppose. If you feel better by nightfall come eat with me." 

Rising to her feet Sansa bows, as friendly as they are politeness can never hurt, and steps out into the searing sun. She can hear Sandor fall into step behind her, three paces back as is considered proper around here. Sansa misses him by her side where they can easily exchange words, or at least where Sansa can talk and Sandor can growl and occasionally make fun of the things she says.  
Now she is left alone with her thoughts for a large part of the day. 

Her tent is not far from Dany's; she is after all an important guest, large and as airy as it gets out on the planes. Sansa waves her maids away motions for them to leave her alone and turns to close the entrance to the sight of Sandor's broad back blocking the opening. He's been standing guard since the sun had risen dressed in leather armor instead of his usual plate, but still.

"Come in Sandor, you can guard me as well from inside the tent as from in front of my door." 

He half turns so he can see her as well as the outside, frowns down at her long enough for her to get fed up and turn away from him with a huff. As she pours herself a cup of honeyed water, she hears him sigh heavily and step into the tent.

"Close the door."

She wonders why taking this step feels right all of a sudden; inviting him inside, it isn't because of Dany's curiosity, not really and it isn't because something has changed in either Sansa's circumstances or Sandor’s for that matter. 

"That isn't a good idea girl." 

Sansa turns to him; Essos has changed Sandor from a under appreciated mutt into a warrior who has always been there under the grime and cynicism. She hasn't seen him this hesitant in all the months they've been traveling with Dany's khalasar. 

"What isn't?"

Sandor trying to be tactful is a strange sight indeed.

"This isn't proper."

In the privacy of her tent Sansa allows herself an amused snort.

"I never thought I'd see the day you'd care about propriety! Sit down Sandor, have a drink, call me a silly girl, just stop acting like..." 

Sansa doesn't want to call him a 'knight', that would be the ultimate insult and while it would provoke Sandor into reacting, it wouldn't be the reaction she wants.

"I never thought I'd see the day that you stopped caring."

His face is twisted in displeasure an expression Sansa hasn't seen in a while.

"You think anyone here will care if I have you in my tent?"

Sansa isn't a fool, not any longer, she knows that news does travel and there are still Westeros eyes on her even with a sea between them.  
But who would care?  
With Rickon returned to Winterfell she no longer brings the title of Warden of the North nor Winterfell itself with her, cast off once, one marriage annulled and once widowed by a husband she had seen only once Sansa wonders if there even is anyone left who would be willing to take her to wife. Even with a dowry to tempt a husband she’s very much aware that she is damaged goods.  
Becoming an ambassador to the last of Targaryen has saved her from getting married off again by her uncle to strengthen her brother’s future power base. 

Sandor just growls in response, but does step further into the tent to take a cup when Sansa offers it. His fingers brush hers an instant before she let's go and send a shiver down her spine.

"I think you're letting this place go to your head. The dragon bitch might do as she pleases, but no one expects her to have manners having been raised among savages, just to have the right blood. Not with the bloody fucking dragons at her back."

He drinks deep thirsty after hours spend standing in the sun.

"I have you, doesn't that count?" 

She hides her smirk by turning away as he chokes and coughs slamming the cup back onto the table with the carafe of water.  
"Fucking hell Little Bird! Don't you have any decent wine around here or are you out to kill me?"

Sitting down on the pallet that serves as her bed Sansa watches him rummage around in her chests as if he owns the place, or she keeps wine in them for his to drink.

"No, I think if I really wanted to kill you...I'd probably follow Dany's advice."

In a way it's the curse of the nobles: they tend to forget that servants and those lower than them in rank have ears and minds. Sansa, having been both, remembers all too well that Sandor isn't deaf even if she often chooses to ignore this fact. Sandor wise to the way of things has always played along, and will keep doing it if Sansa doesn't manage to bait him into snapping; he has been much too proper lately as far as she's concerned.

"Fuck you Sansa! Don't taunt an old dog; he might just have one more bite in him."

The shock of his harsh tone startles her out of the strange mood that has had her in its grasp since she’s left Dany’s tent. She studies her Sworn Shield; he's been keeping to the other side of the tent since he's come in, has barely looked at her and is refusing to meet her eyes.  
Instead of just needling him out of the cloak of propriety he's assumed of late she's actually hurt him. 

"Sandor..."

"Don't Sandor me, wench! I thought you had grown out of this kind of idiocy! Be thankful that your little joke was about me and not about one of the dragon bitch's pretty mercenaries, they would take it as an invitation."

He paces closer as he rants, ends up towering over her looming savage and dangerous, full of barely controlled rage. When she had been a girl, he would have terrified her like this. Now she simply waits for an opening to speak.

"So why won't you?"

Sandor curses up a blue streak about idiot birds who won't listen and Sansa has to hide a smile. Up until he drops to his knees in front of her, far too close for comfort startling her into drawing back and ending on her back on the pallet with him crouching over her, his burned cheek brushing hers as he whispers into her ear.

"Because Little Bird I've wanted to fuck you raw for years now, and a lady like you shouldn't be sullied by the likes of me."

His words, the wild look in his eyes as he hovers over her carefully keeping their bodies from touching, they should terrify her; instead they bring back the ache that started between her legs when she fantasized of him taking her.

"What gives you the right to decide?" 

Somehow she's always thought him to be different than the rest of the men in her life; but there he is taking the decision away from her too. Her anger gives her the courage to reach out, grab his long, tangled hair and yank his head down until they are sharing air.

"Sansa..."

He rarely uses her name and all of a sudden she's granted the privilege of hearing it twice in a short space of time. She'd forgotten how much Sandor can express with his eyes from all the time he's spend walking three steps behind her. 

"I thought you'd gotten over your fascination with scaring the naive chit you protected in King's Landing. You never showed any interest after finding me in the Veil, you gave me your oath and I've treasured it since but your oath didn't mean..." 

He doesn’t let her finish.

"What the hell else did you think it to mean?" 

She can see him gearing up for another rant, and knows pretty well what he's going to say to her, she's said all those things to herself over the years after all. Instead of listening to it all over again Sansa arches up and closes the distance between their mouths.

He tastes like honey and a trace of bitter wine he's probably managed to find somewhere at their last stop, he tries to pull away but Sansa throws the last vestiges of propriety in the wind and kicks her dress until her legs are free and she can wrap them around him to keep him from pulling away.  
She'd been right to imagine having difficulty to cross her ankles behind his back; Sansa has to strain a bit to lock her ankles behind his back. The feeling of his weight on her takes her breath away, with their lower bodies flush together Sansa can feel how much he's been holding himself back.  
He tries to pull away again, but Sansa doesn't give up; she licks into his mouth until Sandor responds with a wounded groan returning her kiss and surrendering to her will.  
When she no longer has to fight him the kiss gentles and Sandor finally breaks it with a curse, grabs her by the jaw and buries his face in her hair.

"I hope to hell that you know what the fuck you're doing Little Bird because this is the last chance you get to say 'no'." 

He keeps nuzzling at her hair as his hand finds her breast; hot and rough with calluses even through her dress closing possessively around her flesh. He growls as his mouth finds her ear, licks down the edge of her jaw and across her throat until his face is buried in her chest. She wraps her arms around his neck and arches into his tongue as he licks across the top of her breast, his other hand travels to her chest as well to fumble with the laces of her dress.  
She hears the fabric tearing, feels hot breath on suddenly bared skin then a hungry mouth closes around a nipple teeth and tongue eliciting sensations from her flesh she had believed to be impossible, embellishments by maidens too caught up in the romance of a man en woman coupling.

Sandor's hands work to destroy the rest of her bodice until the remaining shreds of the dress are tangled around her waist, one hand gripping Sandor's hair tight to keep him from moving away the other scratching ineffectively at the leather armor he is still wearing. She wants to feel his skin against her, wants to see him bare just for her instead of having to sneak glances while he trains or while sowing up his wounds. 

"Sandor..."

His head jerks up, eyes dark with lust, hands stilling at once at the sound of her voice.

"Did I hurt you?" 

She is at a loss for words, breathless with love and lust for the man who growls, snarls and threatens but will do anything to keep her safe, happy and unhurt.

"No, take your armor off; I can't get the buckles loose."

It takes him a while to process the demand; Sansa sees confusion and surprise pass over his face before settling on guarded pleasure. He gets off her somewhat reluctantly, grabs her ankles to unwrap her legs from around his waist not quite managing to keep himself from tasting the dusty skin of her ankle before leaving her lying on the pallet. 

Sansa watches him towering over her as he works to get rid of his sword belt; taking care to lay it down so he will be able to easily reach it from the pallet.  
When Sandor is sure the sword will be within reach, he rips into his armor and clothing cursing as he goes when the garments don't cooperate as he wants.  
It takes a while before he stands over her bare and panting his flesh hard and red bobbing in front of him as proof of his need.

Sansa rises up onto her knees, reaches for him forgetting all manners and propriety in her need to touch. He's hot and hard in her hand, the black pelt-like hair surrounding his flesh is matted with sweat and soft to the touch, he twitches under her touch clear drops forming at the tip. Sandor growls above her, his hands finding their way into her hair again, without the armor he still smells of leather, sweat and male and all of a sudden Sansa needs to know if he tastes the same. She doesn't know what posses her to lean in and close her lips around his flesh, to flick her tongue across the tip to lick away the moisture gathered there. Sandor's curses turn into moans that startle her into releasing her prize and looking up at him fearful that she has done something wrong.

"Are you trying to kill me Little Bird?" 

He kneels next to her, his thumb tracing her lips once or twice before taking her mouth in another kiss. Their bodies wrap around each other with barely any barrier between them and Sansa marvels at the difference that having the man she has chosen for herself in her bed makes.

He's scratchy against her, hard unyielding muscle against her softness, his hands roam her body until they finally hook behind her thighs dragging her into his lap. Sansa whimpers when she feels him pressed against her core, claws at his shoulders to keep balance and grinds down to feel more of him against her. 

"Didn't you just promise to...fuck me raw?" 

She has trouble getting the words out, such rough language still alien to her even after years of listening to Sandor use it. But it does get results; one of Sandor's hand tightens on her flesh and lifts her up, she feels the fingers of his other hand dipping into her core, coming back leaving a wet trail down her thigh.

"Sansa..." 

Her name comes out sounding more like a growl than anything else, it's also the only warning she gets before be breaches her. Sandor doesn't stop until he's sheathed inside of her to the hilt. He finds her mouth with his own again as he enters her smothering Sansa’s scream with a kiss.  
She claws at his back full with him and not full enough, Sansa tries to arch away from him then pull him close while he holds still as a statue waiting for something.

The remnants of her dress still tangled around her waist annoy her enough to distract her from Sandor's unwillingness to move momentarily. While pushing it out of the way her fingers catch on the strap holding her dagger to her leg.  
The dagger Sandor gave her so long ago; thin, delicate and deadly, it slices through the rags as if they are spider’s webs and makes Sandor twitch when the tip drags across his skin up his chest until Sansa is pressing it against his throat.

"You promised!" 

She hisses against his lips, twists her face away before he can try for another kiss and licks across his scarred cheek. He twitches inside her again, thrusts into her sharply making her gasp losing control for a moment. 

"No longer a bird are you?..."

His voice grates across her skin firing her arousal up further.

"...When did you manage to turn into a wolf bitch?" 

She doesn't answer, just bares her teeth and puts enough force on the dagger to draw a drop of blood from him. Sandor curses at her, grabbing her hand to effortlessly twist the dagger out of her grip and throw it at the nearest support where it sticks with a high pitched whine vibrating with the force of impact.

Rising up to stand on his knees Sandor dumps her on her back and all Sansa can do is whine at the loss of him inside her. She doesn't expect to be flipped onto her stomach and put on her knees, doesn't expect Sandor to cover her with his body as he enters her again from behind.  
She twists her head, wants to see his face to understand what he's doing, but Sandor pushes her shoulders down and growls in her ear.

"This what you want Sansa? To get bred like a bitch?"

He sets a punishing rhythm; short, sharp thrusts that force whimpers and whines out of her pinning her to the pallet while nuzzling at her neck.

"Sandor..."

She feels his hand in her hair; he uses his grip on it to force her to turn her head so he can lick into her mouth again. His fingers torment her nipples, draw patters on her stomach and combs through the hair that frames her core then slip between her lower lips to twist a nub hidden there as Sandor thrusts into her as deep as he can.

She screams as pleasure floods her body; waves of it radiate from her center and rob her of awareness of everything but Sandor panting in her ear, still thrusting into her body as she tries to keep from shaking apart and losing her mind. 

Sandor nips at her neck and throat, he sits back on his knees pulling her along to lean against his chest, his slick fingers draw patterns on her sweaty skin as if marking her as his.

"You're going to sing for me girl..."

Weakly Sansa grabs at him, digs her fingers into Sandor's flanks to keep from falling over. The hand that's not wrapped around her sternum teases at the nub that gave her such pleasure again, her muscles tighten around him every time he thrusts inside her. To Sansa’s amazement she feels the same tidal wave of pleasure already rising again.  
Sandor's thrusts grow erratic, his panting turns into a drawn-out growl, she feels him come as waves of pleasure crash through her at the same moment.  
She screams her pleasure to the world digging her fingers into Sandor's flesh hard enough to leave welts, his roar of completion joining her song.

She barely notices Sandor dropping the both of them onto the pallet, only whimpers in displeasure when he leaves her. He doesn't go far, when she reaches out to him Sandor pulls her close turning so that he's between her and the door. 

"Your relatives are going to want my hide once word gets back."

He doesn't sound repentant, in fact Sansa suspects that he's looking quite pleased with himself, but doesn't have the energy to turn and check.

"You've made very sure word would get back. At least this way you won't have to sleep in front of my tent any longer to guard me."

His laugh vibrates through her body as she becomes drowsy.  
Right before sleep takes her she can't help snorting.

"Dany will be impossibly smug now..."

She falls asleep to Sandor's laughter.


End file.
